


The Linen Closet

by Guede



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Closet Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27392959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: Two men in a dark enclosed space.  What do you think happens?
Relationships: James Norrington/Will Turner
Kudos: 32





	The Linen Closet

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2004 as a birthday gift for LJ user fabu.

James is trying to think of a good reason to stop this because he knows that there ought to be one. In fact, a bare two minutes ago there was one, clear as sunlight in daytime in the forefront of his mind and the tip of his tongue. But he can’t find it now. He believes it has something to do with the lips that are rounded around his tongue, the hands that are hooking his mind out of his skull by way of his hips, which are _curiously_ sensitive to the edge of a thumbnail drawn slowly along the line of the bone.

He pulls back and promptly hits the wall. It takes a moment to remember that yes, houses have walls. Interfering things that they are. “Will, for God’s sake—”

For all that Turner isn’t the wordsmith of the town, he’s quite skilled with certain other uses and applications of his mouth. Such as licking the sweat out of the dips behind James’ jaw. Or undoing James’ neckcloth with teeth alone. James tries to slide away from the tiny flickers of nibbling, the catch of a canine on his skin, and strong hands shove him right back. He thinks about putting his own hands to use, but when he attempts to communicate with them, the traitorous things refuse to move from their white-knuckled grip on Will’s shoulders.

His prick isn’t very helpful either, as it’s positively gleeful in its enjoyment of the situation. Unfortunately, James’ legs seem to be listening to it rather than to his mind, and so his knees are dangerously close to wobbling. “Will. Elizabeth—she’s upstairs—”

“And rather preoccupied, I’d think.” It must be the effect of working in the forge, because Will’s voice has gone unaccountably smoky. Its rasp peels shudders from James’ back and makes the heavy heat in his gut tug at him like a lead weight. He slips down two inches, putting his throat right against Will’s lips, and then tries to regain lost ground. However, his body refuses to lift him more than an inch, and just that inch costs him such effort that he doesn’t have the strength to resist when Will’s fingers ripple their way from hips up under James’ waistcoat.

“Elizabeth. Will, Elizabeth—” The connection between James’ mouth and his brain seems to have frayed completely through and parted. He can’t seem to say anything but the last half-whole thought he’d had.

Will sighs, hot breath an unbearable tingle against the base of James’ neck. “She’s entertaining Jack, all right?”

“Jack…Jack Sparrow?” Now that surprise is enough to clear James’ head a little. He manages to recall how to tilt his head so he can glare at Will. “And—”

“And you two have a truce—” thigh shoved against James’ prick, ratcheting up the strain “—and you agreed to be our guest for tonight—” hot palms molding against his belly “—and you’re being a damned poor one.”

A hard rake of teeth down James’ neck finishes Will’s speech. More importantly, it finishes off any resistance James has. He still has a vague feeling that something is not quite as it should be, but now he thinks that it could probably wait at least until—

Will can move damnably fast when he wants to. And apparently, he can undress a man in the time it takes for James to blink. Or Jack Sparrow has corrupted the young Turner with some witchery that enables Will to slow time, because cold air is sweeping the shivers out of James’ bared front and for the life of him, he cannot remember how that happened.

To be honest, he can’t remember anything at all now. His memory is fragmented into quick slices of sensation: taste of his own sweat, thin wood shelf digging into his back, yards and yards of silken linens soaking up his gasps and moans and whimpers as Will snakes back up, that devious tongue first. James fists his hands in the sheets behind him, knowing he’s probably ruining the most expensive ones in Port Royal, but he can’t find the wits to care. He’s far, far too busy with throwing his head back and letting his knees go and trying desperately not to slam his thighs together around Will’s head. Because damnation, but Will is going—so—far—up. Teasing and licking and sucking his way between James’ legs, tickling finely coarse hairs and thin skin and then dipping into—into—

James thinks he’s going to fall. He feels like he’s in the memory of his first time in the rigging, sick in his stomach and queasy in his head and so unsure of his orientation that when he finally dared look down at the deck, he had wondered why the sky was planked over. “Will!”

“Yes, that would be my name.” And Will drops a kiss against that little trembling ring of nerves before he leans back, rocks onto his heels and looks up with an angelic expression that wouldn’t be out of place on Satan. “Turn around.”

“What?” If James even begins to let go, he’s going to crash through the floor and through the earth and end up somewhere in Asia.

Will’s palms are still on James’ hips, and they’re insistent at twisting him around. But they offer enough support for James to not collapse until after he’s over the large trunk that’d been crowding them from the side. He grips the wood as if the world was trying to fling him off and tries not to scream when teeth fix themselves in his nape and fingers slowly work what feels like oil into him. “You know, those boots look criminally good on you.”

Turner is not making sense. Of course, he hasn’t made much sense all night, but this is possibly the most inane thing that he’s come out with so far. “Pardon?”

James has an English accent, even when he stumbles through the fragments of other languages that he’s picked up over the years. But when he speaks this time, his voice soars high and squeaky at the end like a constipated Frenchman’s because just then Will has the audacity to flick out his fingers. “Damn it, Turner—”

“And that’s my last name.”

Will whispered the words, kissing at James’ hairline as he did, and then he laughed, low and wicked. Yanked down James’ undone coat, shirt and waistcoat so James’ arms were trapped behind him. Not that the effort was necessary, seeing that as soon as Will started to push into James—God in heaven, when had Turner had the chance to undress?—struggling became a moot point.

“I’m very, very good with my hands,” Will purred in answer to the thought James only now realized he’d voiced out loud. His nails scratched into James’ hips when he pulled back, then clenched down when he shoved back in.

“I see meeting Jack Sparrow…has resulted…in some interesting twists…to your education.” It’s no small surprise for James to discover that he’s regained his reason. At least, enough of it to make a weak jest.

Will comes to a total, absolute, devastating stop, and when James whines and whimpers and wriggles—he’ll be embarrassed about that later, but right now he just wants…well, to get _fucked_ , and properly—Will lets all of his weight come down on James, pinning them in place. “James. I knew you longer than I knew him.”

Once again, James is stumped. It’s a disconcerting feeling, but he’s grudgingly becoming accustomed to it. “And that’s relevant—” remembers he can still clench muscles and does so, to the tune of a beautiful groan “—how?”

“You would be difficult. Even _now_.” 

And oh, _God_. Will’s either trying to plow James into the trunk beneath, or he’s determined to break every bone in James’ body. Raw, searing, violence-edged—and then Will leans forward to kiss softly at James’ slack mouth.

“I mean, I do _all_ the work on my swords. Like yours. Took a good month for the detailing.” Finally, Will’s breath is going ragged and his voice is roughening, deepening to moans and cries and half-formed swears. “Idiot. There’s a reason why Elizabeth got Jack.”

And it’s strange, but that is what actually breaks James.

* * *

About fifteen minutes later, when they’re wobbling up the staircase together with James mostly slung on Will’s back, James takes advantage of the midpoint turn to throw his body against Will. Turner ends up against the wall and James thoroughly kisses the sense out of him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Will’s grin fits very nicely beneath James’ chin, and it occurs to James that he is, after all, there for the night. And knowing both Elizabeth and Jack, there’s hardly any need to rush upstairs.

James glances at the steps that still remain and applies a bit of imagination to them. Then he trips Will and falls after him, laughing.


End file.
